Every time I came back
it was to stand surrounded
by the square front hall
oak and lemon smelling
Metal shaded lamps
to draw the eye at night
Orange tiger lilies bracketing
moss glazed fire place tiles
The Parlor door open
direct afternoon light
chased by muffled gray
on humid summer days
The Green Painting waiting
open armed on the far wall
above a crack lacquered
roll top desk
It always took me further
into its own dream world
of fog, a stream dividing
the marsh edge to edge
The blackened green
of pine and cypress arms
rooted in celadon grass
no bump elbowed woods
The artist had watched
smiling when my grandmother
first saw the canvas and
took it wet from the easel
Thanks tossed back
she walked out the door
into the mist blocked morning
off home to hang it for me
Tag Archives: celadon
really
outside my door the guard has changed
a day of wet and gloomy gray
whisked off by racing clouds
abdicated winter steps in minuet retreat
the sullen blue gray glow of rained on slate
is caught by short lived slants of morning sun
and wind, a small all-hands treetop voice
is loath to roar (for now)
the dripping cloak that wraps this house
begins to dry and shed small gleams
the morning raven fly by
lacking winter urgency
green daffy blades push up
brash in return, migrating from the soil
no longer threatened accidents
almost time to prune and clear a way
for the celadon and smell of spring
_________________________________________
I’m mindful that March in New Hampshire is fickle, and for a good long while snow will be a possibility. the path to spring is never straight up here.
Life With Horace 